


from this darkness, flowers

by erlkoenig



Series: Terrifying Tolkien Week 2017 [7]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blink and you'll miss it, Der Erlkoenig, Free Choice, M/M, Pre-Slash, So I chose to revisit Der Erlkoenig Thranduil, Terrifying Tolkien Week, and gave myself a prompt somewhere between the Tam Lin Set and The King of the Fairies, but it's there trust me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 19:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12589188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erlkoenig/pseuds/erlkoenig
Summary: “The forest has changed me,” he says, voice like a breeze through the leaves, a casual toss of branches, a rise and fall like a whisper carried. “It is a part of me as I am a part of it.”





	from this darkness, flowers

**Author's Note:**

> day seven: free choice (the king of the fairies)

The Elvenking wore a crown of spring flowers, woven delicately through his hair. Vines clung to his shoulders, dripping down his shoulders like ivy pauldrons to cling with tendrils to the fine silks of his robes.

“The forest has changed me,” he says, voice like a breeze through the leaves, a casual toss of branches, a rise and fall like a whisper carried. “It is a part of me as I am a part of it.”

Elrond nods, not knowing what to say, hands clasped tight behind his back. “I must admit I was relieved when I received your summons, it had been some time since I had heard from you.”

There was a laugh, almost mocking, almost cruel. “You worried.”

He hesitates, pulls his lip in to worry it between his teeth. “I did. We have seen much and been through terrible things.”

“I try not to think of it.” It is a lie, even Elrond can see this. “What use is there repeating what we already know.”

“You think he will return?”

“You do not?”

He has nothing to say to this. It is hidden from him, but he knows, can feel it deep in his heart that this darkness has not passed. But there is a different darkness now, one that he can almost reach out and touch. Too many years have passed in silence and the king before him now is not the friend he knew on the battlefield. 

“Shall we speak of other things,” it is not a question, and Thranduil does not say anything for some time as they walk through the dark woods. If he closes his eyes, he can remember Eryn Galen, bright green and full of life. This new place is full of shadows, its borders a dark gash across paper. Here, the leaves grow so dense that starlight cannot shine and he shivers. There’s a smirk playing at the corners of Thranduil’s lips. “I am glad of your counsel,” but there is no warmth in his words.

“I am glad to offer what I can.” He says, the words like stones sticking in his throat. He thinks to flee, thinks _this is dangerous_ but he touches Thranduil’s arm and offers a smile. This close he can see flecks of green in the silver of his eyes, can see the way the ivy threads through the elvenking’s hair and digs into his skin, can see the wild shadows that flicker across his face and the air tastes wild and wicked. He feels drunk on it, as heady as any wine and he moves closer despite the warnings. 

“Are you?” Thranduil teases, moves to circle him, and Elrond thinks himself as perhaps a threat, perhaps prey, something sized up and Thranduil’s smirk spreads into a smile, sharp and white even here in this dim light.

“I have never spoken false to you before, why should I now?” He breathes, fingers twitching to reach for him. _The Silvan are more wild, less wise_ but Thranduil is neither Silvan, nor is he unwise. But this, whatever this is, twists in his gut and tells him that he can still leave.

 

The last grasps of Winter blow past them with plucking little fingers, chilling him to the bone and he sees him different. Not Thranduil from Lindon, starry-eyed and full of youthful wonder. Not Thranduil, jaded and wounded and blood-stained in the deadlands outside those Black Gates. He sees the Elvenking, last of their Kings indeed. He sees a different sort of creature and he wants to see more, to know more. 

“No,” Thranduil says finally, and Elrond feels himself breathe again. “You have not.” All around them are signs of new life, buds on the trees, fresh soft grass beneath their feet and yet Thranduil’s voice is the crush of decaying leaves, brown and red and gold underfoot, the pull and groan of roots from black soil. The forest comes alive with every word, something old and full of some carefully concealed emotion. Anger, perhaps, sorrow and loss. Something else, something Elrond needs to know and he knows he will not be returning to his Imladris for some time.

**Author's Note:**

> nelyafinwes.tumblr.com


End file.
